


Human Miracles

by colorfulCheshire



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Gen, Humanstuck, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Violent Thoughts, violent imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 13:36:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1228360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colorfulCheshire/pseuds/colorfulCheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After everything that's happened, Gamzee's grown to hate humans, only not in the way that trolls are supposed to hate other beings, with thoughts of murder and destruction invading his dreams.  This post-game BS is probably his punishment for everything, but also, it seems, a gift.  It's a bit of both, but he considers it a miracle all the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> Another midnight-writing so once again, the flow is just _off_ to me. Takes place post-sburb with some creative license thrown in. I might do more from this universe if you guys want. Message me for requests, I guess.

You hate them so much, the humans - those pale-skinned, hornless motherfuckers. You want to split them open and figure out what kind of ugly colors they bleed, probably something even lower than rust, something a troll could never be just on principle of it being so motherfucking pathetic.

You don’t remember ever having hated anyone before, not even that awful Serket who always seemed to have something against your best of bros. Even after what she did, you couldn’t feel black for the girl, or for anyone really. How could these pale-haired aliens have shoved their way all up in your caliginous quadrant like they up and owned the motherfucking place? It makes your jaw tense almost painfully as you hear one of your voices in your head, mocking your pale-bro, “ _it’s not black if you want to kill them, you pan-stunted grubshit,”_ but you honestly don’t give two shits what it’s called. You just want to sink your teeth into them.

TG and his blasphemous motherfuckers who are all up and trying to claim to be your messiahs like it’s some motherfucking joke. You’re not laughing. He thinks he has this shit all figured out, like he’ll be some big damned hero to save all these other assholes when the time comes. Motherfucker needs to think again.

TT and the snide ice that cools her words like you fell asleep in the cooling unit again, the sharpness in her sea-dwelling eyes when she looks up at the vents. She can’t possibly see you with those ill-adjusted human eyes, but it’s always like she’s looking right through you to your center, like she _knows_. You’re not sure what it is she knows, or that you think she knows, but somehow, it terrifies a motherfucker, and makes you sick to the core. She needs to go, too, before she figures anything else out with that piercing stare and whispers it to the others with that cool tone of hers.

You dream of sinking your fangs into them, yellow claws drenched in dull seadweller lavender and whatever mystery color that motherfucker hides behind his shades. Most nights, it’s black, thick and hot as the sun as you run your fingers through the burning sludge. Some nights, when you paint the walls, it’s in light violet and bright red, but those dreams always turn for the worse when you turn to get more paint and that awful motherfucker has been replaced with your moirail, lying at your feet with his hair soaked in candy-red.

However, most nights you drown as you kill, your clubs pounding a smooth beat into their skulls, colors leaping from your weapons to paint the walls, the air, the ceiling, your lungs. You can’t seem to stop the beat, thick words rolling in from two sides of your pan in unison and collision as black, violet, and red start to swallow you, icy cool and burning on all sides of you. Your beats turn into desperate thrashing as you try to swim, only, you’ve never known how, and soon you’re drowning in the acrid taste of icy-hot alien blood.

 

You wake with a start, jumping up onto unsteady feet as you register a freezing-hot liquid drenching your entire body. You stumble and fall face forward onto the floor, your heel hitting the metal frame on the underside of your bed with a painful clang as you land against the thin carpet with a dull thud and a swear.

From somewhere above your sweat-drenched form and further ahead, there’s a shout of surprise, a long second of silence, and then a shrill wail. You swear under your breath again as you pull your legs beneath you and stand up quickly, trying to keep your balance as you reach up for the light cord. You hiss as it flicks on, filling the room with a light your eyes were _not_ ready for, but you squint against brightness of the open bulb and make your way to the crib against the wall opposite of your bed.

You’re already muttering soothing apologies as you lean over the edge and pick up the small, frightened child. You pull him close, petting his dark hair while you start stringing out some soothing words to the soft beat you pat his back with. He’s calming down now, which is good, and your rhymes dissolve to soft apologies again as you rub his back and nuzzle the side of his face, leaving a soft kiss on chocolate skin.

“Shh, it’s alright, Tavbro. This motherfucker didn’t mean to up and wake you again. He’s just got some wicked shit he’s been dealing with, but he’s got ya. He’s got ya.”

You stand there in the middle of your shared room, bouncing the toddler in your arms gently while rubbing circles on his back. You’re reaching up to turn off the light again when you catch the two of you in the mirror bolted to the door. The two of you make an odd pair, one too tall and lanky with some of the palest motherfucking skin you’ve ever seen – your purple irises only stand out that much more against your pale skin, white sclera, and messy flaxen hair. In the arms of this awkward-limbed young man is a small dark-haired toddler, probably a bit over a sweep old, with the most beautiful chocolate skin stretched across a sleeping face chubby with baby-fat. Neither of you are the same, and while you can’t stand your own sickly image, you’re quite certain that the child in your arms is the most beautiful motherfucking being to ever be imagined in any universe.

You’re still not sure why you were allowed to live. Hell, you were about ready to take care of your own ugly mug to save everyone else the trouble, after your not-so-little cherub had fallen. Someone had dragged you through that ugly door, so very much like the one you and your friends had lost after your own game, and then everything was different. You were no longer you and you wanted to claw off your own skin with your new useless, rounded claws. You probably would have tried if not for the meteors that came crashing down around everyone, bearing creatures that carried the likeness of those lost.

Your last custodial attempt wasn’t the best, and while you loved your lusus, copying his methods probably had a major role in why everything got so fucked up. You hadn’t expected the others to let you raise one, the little human Tavros who had been given a second chance, but you weren’t about to waste this miracle you’ve been given. Even in your awful human form, you were going to be the best damn lusus, er parent, that you could be for Tavros. He deserved to have the best.

And him having the best meant you getting over your own shit so you stop waking him up in the middle of the night.


End file.
